


Tattoo

by handlewithkara



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Angst, Body Modification, Booty Calls, F/M, Hand Jobs, Pining, Swearing, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:33:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26289532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handlewithkara/pseuds/handlewithkara
Summary: When Mon-El comes back from the future wearing a tattoo, Kara can't help but be mesmerized. And one thing leads to another.For the kinktober prompt:- Body modification/decoration
Relationships: Kara Danvers/Mon-El
Comments: 26
Kudos: 38
Collections: Kinktober 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by the amazing Andromeda Smith. 
> 
> This story is inspired by that time Chris Wood revealed his new tattoo when he posted a picture of himself recording voice work for He-Man. So picture Mon-El's tattoo to look roughly the same. https://www.instagram.com/p/B8j0AQthTUn/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link

Mon-El isn’t sure what drew him to the colorful corner store. It’s new. He hasn’t seen it in this part of Neograd. It must have sprung up here just a few weeks ago. Some hopeful soul moving to the big city, trying to make their dreams come true.

He likes the colorful mix of aliens inside. A Borovaxian working next to a Thelbar, amongst all the humans milling about all against the background of a mural of an Andalan star. Feels like collaboration. Feels like peace. The Thelbar clicks her jaws and points at him with her forked tongue.

His eyes wander across the displayed stencils. They speak of hope, or teenage angst, of loss born and cemented.

On pure whim, he asks for an ancient Daxamite prayer, a prayer of protection for the one you love. When it’s done, he runs his hand along the soaked gauze that covers it and wonders whether this is a sign that he has unfinished business.

There’s a sinking feeling in his belly, like an old, black stone.

Maybe it’s time to go back.

Maybe this time, he’ll have the guts to return the necklace.

*

When he sees her, when he sees _Kara_ , his fingers instinctively go for his arm. Without really meaning to, he rubs the outline of his tat through the suit.

He should be cool with this. He should be better with this.

He is older, wiser, more grown-up. The last time he was here, he was married. It enveloped him like a cocoon of rules and expectations, a clear guideline of how to proceed, how to act around here. Isn’t that what being a Legionnaire, being Valor, should provide him, too?

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” she answers back.

They are still stilted with each other, but it’s different this time. She seems focused, rooted. It makes him more at ease as well.

Maybe they are both in a better place this time.

*

“I wanted to thank you,” is what he opens with.

“For what?”

“For Winn. It really makes a difference.”

Kara frowns. “Winn isn’t really mine to give.“

“I know, it’s just,” he flashes her a toothy grin, “sometimes I think I’m so lucky to have him around, almost like I’m stealing him from you.”

She laughs and playfully puts her hands on her hips. “For what it’s worth, it seems like you are taking good care of him.”

“Thanks, I try.”

His smile is like a clear and happy mountain brook, easily jumping, traveling, making its way between jagged rocks.

Seeing her, talking to her … almost feels like normal.

*

Kara didn’t think much of it when she stepped into the DEO changing rooms.

Big mistake. The government stamped towel rides extremely low on his hips. Her gaze jerks up. His face. Look at his face. Dammit, she can do this.

She’s not gonna blush. She’s not gonna stammer.

Yes, it was a mistake to come in here. But she is better now. Stronger. She can do this. Hold her composure. Carry on her conversation. Act like there’s nothing out of the ordinary about a glistening, wet, shirtless Mon-El standing in front of her.

After all, she’s Supergirl. She has a reputation to uphold. Her mouth opens, forms the word to a polite and respectful conversation. She can do this, even as a rush of blood occupies her ears, she can barely follow what she herself is saying. Kara just hopes that it makes any sense.

Her gaze flickers down to his arm, a thin dark line catching, trapping her gaze. Her eyes widen.

He didn’t have that before.

Despite her best efforts, her cheeks do grow warm. Dammit. She’s not gonna let that stop her from being professional.

They are heroes.

_Fuck._

*

_Mon-El._

Kara returns to her apartment quietly, her thoughts still spinning. She doesn’t bother to turn on the lights as she sinks down on the couch. Reaching forward, she pours herself a glass of water. Drinks it. Swivels the liquid. Puts it back.

_Mon-El with a tattoo._

Why can’t she get that image out of her head? It feels so unfamiliar. Kara frowns. Not a pleasant feeling to be reminded that time passes differently for him than it does for her. There could be any number of reasons why he got it. Innumerable battles he has survived through, adventures he’s been on without her.

Kara rises.

_That’s not like him._

It always niggles at her that there are things, so many new things about him that she doesn’t know. When she closes her eyes she pictures him, stretched out in a tattoo parlor, as the needle glides across his inner arm, painting swirling exotic symbols.

But why? And for whom? A woman? His comrades? Himself?

She has a feeling that it might be the Daxamite script and suddenly she’s annoyed that she never bothered to learn it. Kara sighs. It seems mad that after all this time she’d still be possessive of his skin. And yet … it irks her. It irks her on a level she can’t quite understand.

Her fingers dance along the table, drawing lines back and forth. At last, they close around her phone. The screen flickers to life. No turning back now. Kara draws the symbol to unlock.

_Fuck._

She doesn’t even have his number anymore. Well, that’s what the DEO is for.

“Hey, Vasquez, can you patch me through to Mon-El?” Sounding neutral. Professional. No big deal.

Kara briefly holds her breath as the connection goes through.

“Wanna come over and watch a movie?”


	2. Chapter 2

_How long?_ Kara wonders.

How long has it been since the last time he stood in her door? And yet here he is, like it’s normal, dressed in casual garb, looking almost sheepish.

“You wanted to talk to me?”

“No,” she says bluntly. “I asked whether you wanted to watch a movie.” She’s not in the mood for talk.

He blinks. “A movie.”

“Yes.” Kara invites him in with a broad gesture. She strides purposefully towards her couch, plops down on it and demonstratively reaches for the remote. There won’t be any funny ideas rising up about what this is, what this means. He can take it or leave it.

That’s what she has decided.

It’s all on him now.

*

They sit quietly side by side. Over and over he keeps sneaking looks at her face, curious, questioning. Looks that Kara ignores, keeping her eyes straight ahead. Eventually, Mon-El gives up trying to read her intent and shifts his attention back, trying to decipher if the movie is the message she wanted him to get. Kara decides to give it a bit more time.

“So, a tattoo?” she says, out of the blue.

Mon-El freezes and looks at her. In the background Erin Brockovich still flickers across the screen, bawdily joking about performing sexual favors for signatures. “I guess so?”

 _I wouldn’t have picked you for the type._ Kara doesn’t look at him, keeping her eyes trained at the screen. Neutral. “Can I see?”

“Sure?” Mon-El offers up his arm. One hit to a button and Julia Roberts has gone mute, mouth opening and closing, with no sound coming out. At last Kara turns to him, her guest, refusing to meet his eyes. Pretending that this isn’t like a door slowly opening a crack, allowing a small peek into that other, that secret, that future world she refuses to want to know more about,

Kara pulls his hand into her lap. With a flat palm she pushes the arm of his shirt up to his elbow.

To the touch, nothing feels different about his skin as she slides across even as her brain insists that it should. It is smooth when it shouldn’t be. Kara runs her thumb along the black swirls, sideways, the edge of her nail tracing him, putting gentle pressure on various points, the ones where the lines curl, rediscovering his once so familiar flesh. .

“Kara, please.” Mon-El tries to jerk his arm away, but she grabs it instinctively, holding it back in place. There’s a hint of desperation in his eyes. It takes a while to sink in why that is.

_Oh._

She lets go of his arm. The soft pads of her fingertips still itch to touch it again, to keep on pressing further even as Mon-El asks her to stop. Kara nudges him. “Lie down.”

Another panicked look, but he gives in, sinking down into the cushions. Kara’s hand holds on on the top of the backrest and waits for him to settle before moving to join him, taking the spot in front of him, stretching her limbs. This way, he lies spooned around her, less than an inch of air separating their bodies. She places her head on his biceps, looking up at the screen. Pretending to watch even as the figures on screen flit around wordlessly, like ghosts. She can hear Mon-El hold his breath, afraid to move. It takes a long time for him to relax.

When he does, once more her fingers venture forward to explore those mysterious symbols. On the screen, a mute Erin still fights for truth and justice. Kara strokes along his offered arm. “What does it mean?”

“Uhm.” He squirms. “Just, just an old Daxamite prayer.”

She caresses the black letters. “What made you get it?” _Was a woman involved?_

“I’m not sure?” Not a satisfying answer. The symbols call out to her, insisting that there has to be, must be more to this story. Slowly, she draws spirals along his arm, admiring the way his skin, his muscles feel to her touch. Underneath her cheek his biceps twitches, flexes.

“Kara,” Mon-El warns. Instead, she leans in and presses her mouth to this, the most curious flesh. A familiar warmth rises between her legs. Yeah. _I still want him,_ she thinks, as she closes her eyes and behind her eyelids flickers the image of that damn blue DEO towel, riding low, oh so low. Her tongue tastes along his inner arm. It finds no difference between the inked and its unblemished brethren. Why is she doing this? Why is she going back to that well? This well that is both so familiar and newly mysterious to her. That dares to go out and get itself marked. Does it not know that it’s her well? For her to go back to as she pleases.

Her whole world has been in disarray, realms merged, who is to say what is constant anymore? Kara licks along the thin line of letters, smothers the words with her kisses. Mon-El groans and grasps her shoulders, only to freeze. Another warning about that line between them she flirts with crossing. It hangs there quietly, between them, words unspoken: _What are you doing, Kara?_

Mon-El is aroused. The awareness of this slowly sinks in. That’s why he’s freezing up, why he’s fidgeting. It’s the reason for the tension of his muscles. This is no more innocent game she’s playing.

He’s turned on. She’s turned on. By this _act_ she’s imposing on him. She _knows_ that what she’s doing is filthy. Inappropriate. Indecent. Completely unbefitting a proper, good heroine. Kissing him. _Licking_ him. Dragging her tongue across his skin. Nipping at it. Making quiet promises with her mouth. Telling tales of where else her lips could be, the pleasures they could give, if they weren’t caressing just the inside of his arm.

Mon-El’s hips snap against her butt, only to jerk away again. His heartbeat is as loud as thunder. It strikes something in her core, making it pulse in response. Not much left in the realm of plausible deniability. Not when she is kissing him, cherishing him. _Like a flighty hussy._

Mon-El clears his throat. “May I touch you?”

“No,” she says, all too quickly. She thinks about it. “Yes,” she says. “A little.” The pressure of his fingers against her shoulder turns into small, drawn circles, rubbing across her shoulder blades. He inches closer. His breath is warm against the nape of her neck.

Trying to escape it, Kara lowers her head again and makes love to his arm with her lips. To the tattoo, that stranger who dared to invade his skin without her permission. Reclaims it, bathed in her saliva, coating it only to clean it up again with a gently lapping tongue.

“I want to kiss you,” he says, interrupting the rustling silence between them and it sends shivers down her spine. Kara tenses. Pauses. Decides to ignore. For now. She buries her face in the crook of Mon-El’s arm, rubs her lips, her nose against it, remembering how thin, how sensitive the skin is there. Waiting to give her answer, it’s like standing on a precipice, up there, on her tippy toes. Ready to fall.

“Okay,” she squeaks.

His body shadows hers, pressing up from behind, his lips against the back of her neck, body to body, pooling their heat, obstinate clothing keeping them from being skin on skin. Kara groans, without turning around, her hand reaches behind, venturing straight for the junction of his legs. It collides with his denim-clad bulge. A sense of victory spikes through her as she explores the extent of his desire. Aroused. Aroused for her. Hard. Horny. Wanting.

Her fingers fumble with the clasp of his belt, trying to outrace him as he slides his hand inside her jeans. Mon-El’s palm cups her mound, and Kara keens somewhere deep in the back of her throat on the dull pressure of his hand against her panties, the soft brush of lips against the shell of her ear. His fingers tease at her shape through the cloth that is already moistening up.

Her plain white virginal undergarments offer little resistance to his expedition, stretching effortlessly underneath his exploring hand. He finds her wet and gushing. His right hand grasps for her, too, trying to angle towards her aching breasts, but Kara catches him, holds down his arm underneath her head, her mouth hot against his wrist, preventing his escape. He’ll have to do that just one-handed. It’s a fair game when her hand too is caught up within in his, fingers intertwined as she holds him in place.

Not content to stay one-limbed he raises up one knee, closes up from behind, creates a trap to catch her in.

All she’d have to do was to turn around. She could offer him her mouth and he would take it. He’d fill her up, fill her up so good, mouth and pussy, with cock and tongue, just like he used to, just like she knows he can.

His heat sears her away.

 _Let’s not forget about the tattoo,_ she thinks, the thing that brought her here. Kara runs her tongue along the length of his forearm and is rewarded by a hissed “Fuck!” behind her ear and a snap of his his hips towards her ass, against her exploring, tugging hand. She grins, then scrambles, rocking her hips, onto his fingers, against her own hand on his crotch, rubbing, teasing. Feeling hot and powerful, she grips him tighter, forcing moans out of his chest, forcing him, racing him, stroking him just the way she remembers he likes it best, her reprimand for his crime of being here, of being him, for looking like _that_ with a towel riding low on his hips.

*

What is she doing? He’s given up on trying to understand her. How can he, when she’s so sleek and beautiful? Fierce and unstoppable, with her hand around his cock?

No, that’s not right. It’s more that he’s given up on trying to stop her. Who could dare to stop the force of nature that is Kara Zor-El, that is Supergirl?

She’s so stubborn and so proud, so persistent in trying to hide the sweetness that he knows is lurking underneath. A sweetness that, once experienced, he’s forever unable to forget.

Wants to hold her, wants to take her into his arms, _live in your eyes, rest my head on your heart, die in your arms_ , to at least kiss her, stroke her hair, but she fights him, as her thighs trap his hand in place.

Mon-El’s arm burns where her lips and tongue and teeth touch his inked skin. _My love, may you be safe, may you be happy._ By now her breasts must be aching. He wants to touch them, see them, kiss them one last time, and yet she fights him, holding his hand in an iron grip, keeping it fixed in place for her mouth’s fiery attack.

“I want to touch your breasts,” he breathes against the spot right behind her earlobe. Her movement falters, stops, only to resume, her hips mashing against his palm faster, harder and more desperate. He’s got a feeling she doesn’t even properly hear him and only responds to the tone of his voice. Kara lets go, lets him bend his arm at the elbow at least enough to tough her face, her cheek.

Mon-El almost comes right there when he feels her tongue brush against his sensitive fingertips. He calls her vixen, siren, goddess in his mother tongue.

“I want to fuck you, have you, spank you,” he whispers to her, bereft of common sense and she cries out. His cock trapped somewhere between his pants, her hand, and her gorgeous ever flexing, undulating ass.

He curls his fingers, tries to find her spots, to get all of them at once. Kara fights him, stubbornly fighting her own climax, ever breathtaking, twisting in his arms, greedily rutting on his hand. Her head falls forward, her long hair covering her face. Strands of blonde flying upward from her puffed breath, her close to mournful, surrendering moan.

Mon-El isn’t sure whether she can even hear him or is too lost within herself as he leans in and whispers “Now. Come for me,” directly into her ear. Some deep-seated part of her seems to have understood, because she tenses up and then convulses around his fingers, fluids gushing into his palm. Kara’s grip around his cock tightens, right up to the edge of pain.

_By the gods, she is so beautiful, so strong._

“Fuck!” he groans and follows her, the furnace of her desire burning him up from the inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For what it's worth, in my head canon the tattoo contains traces of lead that's why the super healing doesn't get rid of it.


	3. Chapter 3

“You’ve been working out,” she says afterwards with a blush, as she stands and watches him readjust his crumpled shirt back into place.

“I guess?” He blinks in confusion.

“Yeah.” Kara steps closer and puts her hand on the nape of her neck, pretending as if there was a tag in need of being straightened and tugged in.

Mon-El rises and as they stand in front of each other Kara puts her finger to her lips, so she won’t kiss him by accident.

“’T'was good,” she says. “Thank you. I needed that.” She blushes again. A complex mixture of turmoil, hurt and gratification plays out on his face.

“I’m glad then. Glad I could help out.”

Their, their relationship has never really been like that. Even if it was exactly what she needed right now. Kara nervously drags her right foot over the floorboard, painting an invisible cycle.

“We good? About us I mean.”

He looks at her. “Yeah. We are.”

A smile breaks out on her lips. “Good. I was worried that … ” Kara leaves the words unspoken. The urge to kiss him grows stronger and suddenly she is there, standing right in front of him, cradling his face with both hands, looking at him, touching him, breathing him. She channels all her self control to keep her roving lips in check.

“Thank you,” she says again and each syllable drags, like it’s loathe to leave her mouth. For all her words do is bring her closer to the moment where she has to let go again of his stupid, beloved, constant face, where he’ll walk out of her life again. Her hand sinks to his shoulder, down his arm.

“You still haven’t told me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your tattoo, why you got it. What you got it for.”

He shrugs. “Like I said, no real story to it.”

She’s dawdling and she knows it, as she thumbs over the mysterious swirls. “A prayer. Never figured you for the religious type.”

“I’m not.”

She looks up at him. “What does it really say?”

A little panic flares up in his eyes and he presses his lips together, staying silent.

“Doesn’t say ‘Mon-El and Imra 4ever’ by any chance?” she jokes.

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Well, small comforts I guess.”

She could ask him. Ask what really happened. Would he tell her? Even if he did, there are many things she doesn’t want and listening to Mon-El talk about his marriage is close to the very top of that list. And yet, she is still loathe to see him leave. Kara pats along his tattoo one last time.

 _I guess it will still be there, the next time we meet,_ she thinks to herself. It still seems like a mistake, an aberration. Something that should not be there and yet stubbornly there it is.

“Guess that’s all there is to say. Safe journey, Mon-El.”

He gives her a long, thoughtful, smoky look. Kara freezes up, her hands balling into fists. It’s not over yet. She holds her breath. Mon-El leans in and places a long, lingering kiss on her cheek.

“Safe journey, Kara Zor-El. May the gentle eyes of the gods forever look upon you full of favor.”


End file.
